


something / like prayer and can’t be planned

by caramelle



Series: a collaboration [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Roommates, what do you call outtakes that are sort of flashbacks but sort of not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:29:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6495451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t remember why she'd texted Bellamy, that night in Outpost with Raven. All she can recall is the sight of Lexa in a black dress and blacker eyeliner, immediately putting in an order for ten shots, and a sudden desperation to feel the sun on her face. </p>
<p>She also can't quite fathom what she'd meant by <i>'why divisions skaht fly down'</i>. </p>
<p>(She can, however, more or less figure out what she'd meant by <i>'you’re the kid est and best persons'</i> and <i>'j think uob are amazin'</i>.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bonus companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6324922">this texting au</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something / like prayer and can’t be planned

[…] To love another is something  
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall  
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

 

Special person,  
if I were you I'd pay no attention  
to admonitions from me,  
made somewhat out of your words  
and somewhat out of mine.  
A collaboration.

\- Anne Sexton,  _Admonitions to a Special Person_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke lets her fingers trace over the smooth wood of the sturdy easel, unable to keep from grinning to herself.

 

She’s often heard of freckles being compared to constellations, poets and singers and artists likening spotted patterns on the faces of their loved ones to those that light up the night sky. For some reason, she’s never really thought of Bellamy that way before.

 

The brown freckles splashed across his face always make her think of earth. It’s like being at the beach, the warmth seeping into her bare soles inviting her toes to curl instinctively into the fine grains of sand, the smell of salt lacing the breeze that caresses her skin and makes it impossible for her to see clearly through windswept blonde waves. It’s like walking through the park on a sunny day, the dirt packed firm beneath her sneakers, leaving wisps of green tucked here and there in the tangle of her weathered shoelaces.

 

She can understand how others might look upon the faces of the ones they love and see an expanse of sky, the entire universe laid out in front of them.

 

She looks at Bellamy, and all she can think of is the ground beneath her feet, solid and warm.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Some things are hazy round the edges.

 

She has a vague recollection of what it was like — not being friends with Bellamy, that is. It’s funny, now that she thinks about it. Just a few years back, they probably would’ve shot themselves in the head rather than call each other “friend”.

 

Still didn’t stop them from having heated arguments that turned into lengthy debates and gradually into her barging into his room with no warning to add on to a point she’d been making the night before. Still didn’t stop him from hovering watchfully nearby when Raven had wanted to meet over a drink to talk about the boy who had cheated on them both. Still didn’t stop her from offering advice on what to do when one’s coworker develops a severe crush on one’s little sister. Still didn’t stop either of them from agreeing to Octavia’s suggestion that the three of them plus Miller find a bigger apartment together just so they wouldn’t have to go through another year of shitty dorm showers and cramped double rooms with paper for walls.

 

They weren’t friends before they started living together. But then again, she’s not too sure they were ever enemies either.

 

She remembers when Octavia moved out. She’d never seen Bellamy that way before — withdrawn within himself, lost without that which had been his first and only concern for the last twenty-three years. Something had tugged deep within her. At first, she thought it might’ve been a pricking of the conscience, an automatic response of human empathy. Three consecutive nights of _Arrow_ and Thai takeout later, she’d realised it was just her automatic response to him.

 

She remembers her breakup with Lexa. She remembers how Bellamy had been there through it all, a pillar of silent understanding and giving patience by her side as she struggled to regain control of her emotions, to rebuild her world. During one of their stay-in _Drunk History_ nights, she’d told him it should’ve been weird how they seemed to fight even less when it was just the two of them in the apartment, with no Octavia- or Raven-shaped buffer around. He’d replied that he would be happy to fight with her anytime she wanted, if she wouldn’t mind providing at least twelve hours’ advance notice so he could read up on the proposed topic.

 

She remembers the first New Year’s Eve party at Octavia and Lincoln’s place, which Bellamy and Gina had walked into holding hands. She’d found it difficult to smile for photos that night, eventually plucking the camera out of Jasper’s excitable fingers with a forced laugh to take over as photographer so she wouldn’t have to. She’d been surprised at the way her heart dropped when Bellamy had told her _‘we’re not dating anymore’_. They’d stayed out on their fire escape till the sunrise, just the two of them and the last of the Jack. She’d been exhausted, senses dulled from the alcohol, but nothing had ever felt more natural in her life.

 

She remembers waking up the morning after Octavia’s attempt to mine a confession from her with the help of Raven’s friend Jose Cuervo, head pounding from the alcoholic beating she’d survived. Her heart had joined in when she’d turned to her nightstand to find aspirin and a bottle of water that she most certainly had not thought to place there before passing out.

 

She remembers the warm weight of both his hand on her back and the note of pride in his voice as he’d introduced her to his beloved Professor Kane, smiling wide as he’d watched them shake hands and exchange pleasantries. She’d tried to hide her relief when he’d returned from the bathroom to rescue her from his lanky classmate’s awkward attempts at flirtation, but the glint in his eye and the hand that returned to her waist reminded her what an open book she’d always been to him.

 

She remembers the way that same hand anchored itself on the back of her seat several times throughout the night Octavia dragged Niylah to drinks. She’d shot him a grateful glance every time he’d brought over a drink order that had been “accidentally” messed up, but tried to stop after she caught Octavia’s narrowed glare directed at her after the fourth time.

 

(She hadn’t succeeded.)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

There are, however, some things she doesn’t remember.

 

She doesn’t remember the name of the RA that came after Bellamy. She’d learned it, even used it a few times. It’d faded right out of her grasp within a month of moving out of the dorms.

 

She doesn’t remember when Bellamy started to put red wine on his shopping list. All she knows is that every time she opens the alcohol cupboard, there’s bound to be a fresh bottle waiting.

 

She doesn’t remember why Raven had thought it’d be a good idea to inform Bellamy when Finn had appeared in the restaurant they were having dinner at. She can’t quite remember if Bellamy had ever given her a proper answer either, about why he’d immediately abandoned the television and couch on the first night he’d had off in two weeks to come pick them up in her car.

 

She doesn’t remember what it feels like to watch _It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia_ or _Drunk History_ without either a drink in hand or Bellamy’s deep baritone rumbling comfortingly nearby, making her roll her eyes and do unintentional spit takes with the alternating nerdiness and crudeness of his jokes.

 

She doesn’t remember why she’d texted Bellamy, that night in Outpost with Raven. She’d known he’d be on a date with Gina, an important one. She’d offered him her car, assured him she’d be fine spending the night alone in the apartment for once. All she can recall is the sight of Lexa in a black dress and blacker eyeliner, immediately putting in an order for ten shots, and a sudden desperation to feel the sun on her face even though it was well past nine P.M.

 

She also can’t quite fathom what she’d meant by _‘why divisions skaht fly down’_.

 

(She can, however, more or less figure out what she’d meant by _‘you’re the kid est and best persons’_ and _‘j think uob are amazin’_.)

 

She doesn’t remember if Bellamy was quite so brokenhearted after his breakup with Gina. She likes to think she’d be able to tell whether he’s torn up or not, but it was a lot harder to do that when he’d gone pretty much back to normal within a couple of days. She’d pretty much given up trying to spot signs of post-breakup depression when he’d slipped back into exchanging friendly texts with his fresh ex by the next week.

 

She doesn’t remember how many shots of Jose she’d done with Octavia. She _is_ , however, one hundred percent sure that whatever Octavia’s number was that night, hers had to be at least twice as high.

 

She doesn’t quite remember Bellamy seeming bored at any point during Professor Kane’s mixer. So much for “I need a date and you’re the only girl I know who isn’t my sister or Reyes”.

 

She doesn’t remember whose idea it’d been to marathon the entire _Hobbit_ trilogy in one sitting. She does, however, remember who’d been the first to realise it was Valentine’s Day. (It was Bellamy. There’d been a display in the store when he’d dashed in to get supplies.)

 

She doesn’t remember when she’d started tuning out romantic prospects. To his credit, Mike hadn’t been all that bad. Not quite Chris Hemsworth, to be sure. But he’d been cute. Eager, in a halfway endearing puppy-dog-eyes way. And he’d definitely been interested. But all she could think of whenever she’d received a message from him was how he was too tall, too skinny, too pale, too blond. Also, he had this creepy fountain-of-youth complexion — perfectly but eerily blemish-free.

 

She doesn’t remember much about Diane. Not that she hadn’t been listening, She’d just sort of blanked out once the words “set her up with Bell” poured forth from Octavia’s mouth.

 

She doesn’t remember when “my friend’s brother” had turned into “my friend”. How do you recall the ground beneath your feet when it’s just always been there?

 

She doesn’t remember when _roommate_ had turned into _the most important person in the world_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

She’s on the couch in the living room when she hears the front door open. She glances at her phone, smiling when she sees the time. It’s earlier than usual for him, by a good thirty minutes. He’d ducked out early tonight.

 

“Clarke?” he appears beside the couch, lifting his bag over his head to dump it on the armchair. He’s grinning, face flushed and eyes bright. “ _Archer_? I’m heartbroken. We’re supposed to watch together.”

 

“It’s an old season,” she says, returning his smile with one of her own as she sets her almost empty wineglass on the coffee table and stands.

 

“Well as long as it’s not—”

 

The rest of his sentence is cut off by her hands on the sides of his face, pulling him down to press her lips to his. A ball of warmth bursts in her chest when his hands instantly go to her waist, tugging her closer so they’re pressed flush against each other.

 

She takes her time with pulling away, turning her face up so she can absorb every detail of his face into her memory — his half-dazed expression, eyelids fluttering open to reveal the glassy dark brown orbs of his eyes, his lips curved in a small smile she’s never allowed herself to think of anything other than platonic fondness before.

 

“I—” he clears his throat with a little cough, hands tightening on her waist, “—uh, take it you like your present?”

 

“Actually,” she says with a cheeky grin, arms winding around his neck so her fingers can curl lazily into his hair, “I did that because I hate it.”

 

Bellamy’s brows quirk up in amusement. “Oh you did, did you,” he says challengingly, hands sliding around her waist and under the hem of her tank top, dragging a trail of buzzing heat across the skin of her lower back. “What would you’ve done if you’d loved it?”

 

“Probably something like this,” she says, pushing herself up on her tiptoes for another kiss, tongue darting along the half-open seam of his lips to coax a deep groan from him. Her entire body tingles at the way he immediately responds, his hands sliding down over her ass to cup over the rounded flesh and pull her even higher against him, so she can feel the stirrings of his arousal even through his jeans.

 

He lets her push off his jacket with eager hands, the thick material falling to the floor with a soft thud, but stops her with gentle hands when she grasps at the hem of his T-shirt.

 

“Clarke—” he breaks off to inhale sharply when she extends her fingers to trail across the rapidly heating skin just above the waistband of his jeans, “— _Jesus_ , princess. Five minutes, please, I gotta take a shower.”

 

“Why?” she asks nonchalantly, tongue darting out to flick at the sensitive skin under his jaw, a little thrill running through her when she notices the way it clenches as it’s introduced to the double sensations of wetness and hot breath.

 

“I reek of alcohol,” he tells her, his low voice distinctly strained as she kisses her way down his neck.

 

“So do I,” she replies matter-of-factly, before nipping at the bit of collarbone exposed by his crewneck tee.

 

She hears a low “ _fuck_ ” and she barely has time to grin in triumph before his mouth is on hers again, his hands firmly planting on her ass to lift her up. Her legs automatically wrap around his waist, and they both groan at the contact of him against her, _right there_.

 

They end up in his bedroom, simply because it’s closest. He lets her down so they can start getting their cumbersome clothes out of the way, but it’s not much easier with their lips still fused together, both reluctant to break contact. She laughs at the way he trips over his jeans in his haste to get them off, but immediately regrets it when she trips over her own shorts, having forgotten about her phone in her back pocket. She kicks at the offending device where it’s tangled up in her clothes, but she’s immediately distracted when Bellamy’s lips occupy hers yet again.

 

“By the way,” she tells him afterward, when they’re breathless and sweaty and wound together in a tangle of sheets and limbs, “you’re my boyfriend now. Just a heads up.”

 

“Heads up,” he responds, throwing an arm out to hook around her neck and pull her in to press a kiss to her matted hair. “You’ve been my girlfriend for a good few months now.”

 

“That’s not how ‘heads up’ works,” she grumbles, but she’s grinning wide as she burrows into the crook of his neck.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the morning, they wake up to a combined total of forty-seven texts in varying ratios from both Octavia and Raven. Clarke looks over her shoulder to the other side of the bed, where Bellamy is upright and scrolling through a caps locked mess, eyes widening in growing consternation.

 

“Not it.”

 

His indignant gaze snaps to her, cheeks flushing. “Wha— how’s that fair!”

 

She shrugs, tossing her phone aside and rolling back over to plant an affectionate kiss on his gaping mouth. “Your sister, your responsibility.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading more of my bellarke trash! 
> 
> kudos/comments always ALWAYS make me smile like an idiot so thank you if you decided to leave some o' that too! =) =)


End file.
